Find Them Dead

8 Tuesday 27 November

It had been many years since Roy Grace had gone out on patrol — being a proper copper, as he called it — and he was loving it. It was all part of the learning curve on his six-month secondment to London’s Met Police. And he was finding front-line policing in one of the most violent areas of London to be a real baptism of fire — and a million miles from the very different vibe of his usual patch, the county of Sussex.

The Violent Crime Task Force had been set up by the Prime Minister, in conjunction with the Mayor of London and the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, to curtail the knife crime epidemic in the city. The unit worked hand in hand with the specialized Metropolitan Police units, fighting Serious and Organized Crime. Knife crime was directly linked to one of their top priorities, tackling the vast and brutal so-called ‘county lines’ drug-dealing empires, which now had a near monopoly on Class-A drugs throughout the UK.

‘County lines’ was the generic name given to gangs — or Organized Crime Networks — bringing drugs on a large scale into different regions of the country. Their principal method of operation was to coerce children and vulnerable adults, either through bribery or brutalizing violence, into hiding, storing and distributing drugs, weapons and cash.

These disposable human couriers were equipped with untraceable pay-as-you-go phones — deal ‘lines’ — giving no link back to their direct bosses if they were caught. They would travel, largely by train, often dispatched to different counties, moving quantities of cocaine and heroin to the local county line ‘lieutenants’. These lieutenants would break the drugs down into individual ‘wraps’ for the street dealers, who would regularly carry the drugs in their body cavities.

Much of the current wave of street violence, Grace knew, came from turf wars between county lines gangs. The gangs themselves were modelled on the Mafia structure, with a ruthless capo, known in street parlance as the ‘Diamond’, at the top, and a lieutenant beneath him, known as the ‘county line head’. And like the Mafia, they were highly efficiently run businesses, willing to torture and kill anyone stepping on their toes.

It was a former boss in Sussex, Alison Vosper — then an Assistant Chief Constable, now Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Met — who had offered him this six-month posting in the role of Acting Commander. He had accepted it, liking the challenge and thinking he might learn a lot from it, which he could apply down in Sussex. And as an added sweetener, it put him on level ranking with his current boss there, ACC Cassian Pewe.

He missed the camaraderie of his team in Sussex, despite being only a few weeks into the posting. But he was determined this unit would make a difference to the appalling murder rate in London.

Earlier this week, Alison Vosper had phoned, sounding him out about extending the posting for another six months, but Grace was not at this moment enthusiastic. The job up here was taking him away from home too much; he’d barely seen his family during the last month. Added to which, back in Sussex he had two separate murder trials coming up of suspects he had arrested, one starting next spring, set down for Lewes Crown Court. He was going to need time to prepare for them.

This evening, he was sitting in the back of an unmarked, innocuous-looking Vauxhall Astra with burly, experienced PC Dave Horton at the wheel and Detective Inspector Paul Davey in the passenger seat, cruising the dark streets of Camberwell in South London, during another of their regular blitzes. Hunting anyone who might be carrying a knife or drugs, as well as moped gangs who were currently plaguing the city, snatching bags and phones.

The car’s interior had the familiar rank smell of most operational vehicles, of junk food and the odour of unwashed villains, but he didn’t mind. He peered out of the window, studying the body language of everyone they passed, while Davey watched the ANPR camera mounted on the dash, which would pick up the registration plates of any car with a previous history of association with any criminal activity.

All three of them were wearing jeans and T-shirts and bulky stab vests beneath bomber jackets, with brand-new, expensive trainers, issued by the Met. Fresh kicks were the principal status symbols of the new wave of young street criminals, and the easiest way for them to spot a copper was by the old and shoddy trainers they usually wore. Not any more. This had been one of Grace’s first initiatives since taking on his new role, to spend a tiny portion of the £15 million budget the Task Force had been given on kitting out his team with the latest drop of trainers.

They were travelling along a main road lined with shoddy shops and restaurants on both sides. As Grace watched a dodgy-looking group of youths on the far side, some in trainers, some in their casual, insouciant street footwear of sliders and black socks, Dave Horton suddenly shouted out, ‘Him!’ and swung sharply left into a side road, unclipping his belt and stamping on the brakes. As the car squealed to a halt, all three opened their doors and jumped out.

Grace sprinted after Horton and Davey, back onto the main road, just in time to see someone in a Scream mask, puffa jacket, gloves and trainers pedalling a bike hard along the pavement towards them.

Shouting, ‘Police!’ Paul Davey put his hands out wide to stop the cyclist, while Horton side-stepped into the road to stop the bike swerving past. Roy Grace braced himself to grab the rider if the other two failed.

The cyclist halted as the Inspector held up his warrant card. An aggressive youth in his late teens raised his horror mask and glared at the three men. ‘Yeah? What you want? You stopped me just because I’m black, right?’

Before either of the other officers could say anything, Roy Grace stepped forward, holding up his own warrant card. ‘So, we’re psychics, are we?’

‘What?’

‘Are you telling us we’re psychics?’

‘Ain’t telling you nothing. You stopped me because I’m black. That’s what you do.’

‘What’s your name?’ Grace asked him, pleasantly.

‘Darius.’

‘Darius what?’

‘Yeah, Darius What. That’s my name. Darius What.’

Grace nodded. ‘OK, Darius. Do you want to tell me how, before we stopped you, any of us knew you were black?’

The cyclist frowned. ‘That’s why you stopped me, innit?’

Grace shook his head. ‘You’re wearing a mask, a jacket zipped to the neck and gloves. You could have been a Martian inside that lot for all we knew. Riding a bike on a pavement is an offence, but that’s not why we stopped you. Your ethnicity doesn’t come into it, but if you go around wearing a mask that scares and intimidates people, we are going to stop you. It’s early evening, don’t you think it might be frightening for any young children to see that?’ Grace smiled. ‘The way you’re making us feel, we should be the ones in the mask. We’re the monsters and you are OK. Is that right?’

‘What you mean?’

‘What I mean, Darius, is that I care about one thing only, and that’s that ordinary folk can walk down the street — any street they choose — without being afraid, without being intimidated, without someone in a terrifying mask hurtling down the pavement towards them. Am I being racist for wanting that?’

Darius looked at him as if trying to figure him out.

‘Well?’ Grace pressed. ‘I’m not going to search you, I’m not booking you for riding on a pavement, or for riding after dark without any lights, which I could. I’m going to let you go on your way, on one condition.’

‘Condition?’

Grace nodded. ‘One condition.’

‘And that’s, like, what?’

‘That when you get to wherever you are going, you give your mates a message. Will you do that, Darius?’

‘What message?’

‘That not all cops are bastards. Tell them we are your cops, too. We care for everyone, regardless of their colour, their gender or their faith. Tell them to stop mistrusting us and work with us, instead, to help make this city better. Go on your way and give them that message. Tell them we didn’t search you and we didn’t ticket you for riding on the pavement, OK?’

Darius looked at him, warily, as if still waiting for the sting.

‘Tell them what my mum used to tell me,’ Grace said.

‘Huh?’

‘My mum used to tell me: If you’re ever in trouble, go to a policeman.’

‘In your fucking dreams.’ He lowered the mask and raced off, pedalling like fury.

Grace turned to his colleagues with a shrug. ‘Win some, lose some.’

Paul Davey patted him on the back. ‘A ten for effort, boss.’

‘And a one for results, sir,’ Horton added.

And the whole enormity of what they were up against, this vast clash of cultures, hit Roy Grace yet again.

An instant later, Horton inclined his head to listen to the radio in his breast pocket. Then he looked up. ‘We’re on!’ he said, gleefully, and sprinted back towards the car, followed by Grace and Davey.